Page 69 of Crowned in Sin
"I've got time."
He proves it. The ice melts against my skin and his mouth follows the water down, over my stomach, lower, both of us slick and sticky with sweat and ice and lemonade by now.
He settles between my thighs and pushes them wide open with both hands. He drags one last sliver of ice through my folds, and the shock of cold against how wet and hot I already am punches a cry straight out of me.
"Nico, fuck."
He answers by licking the cold away with the flat of his tongue, slow, unhurried strokes that turn to fast, hungry ones the second I start rocking against his mouth. He fucks me with two fingers while his tongue works my clit, curling them just right until my thighs are shaking around his head.
"You taste like fucking rain and sugar," he says against me, and the vibration of his voice against my clit nearly finishes me right there.
"Don't stop talking, oh my god, don't you dare stop."
He doesn't stop, doesn't speed up either, just keeps going with a patience that undoes me faster than urgency ever could, his fingers curling deep, his tongue circling, until the words coming out of me stop being words at all.
His hands slide under me, gripping my thighs, holding me open to him, and the sound that comes out of me is embarrassing. I don't care. The rain is louder than I am anyway. Lightning flickers white against my closed eyelids. He hums against me, low, satisfied, like he could stay right there all night and never once get tired of it, and the vibration of it nearly finishes me on its own.
"Nico." Half a warning, half a plea.
He doesn't slow down for either one.
"Nico, I swear to God, I'm going to come so hard."
"Let go,piccola. Come on my fucking tongue."
I do. My hips come up off the bed and he holds me there with one arm banded over my stomach and finishes what he started, and I come so hard I don't hear myself over the thunder. I just feel it, wave after wave, his name the only word I've got left, his fingers still moving inside me until the last of it wrings out of my body, my whole body damp and shaking against the wet sheets.
He comes up my body after, grinning, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand like he just won something, sweat beaded along his hairline in the humid room.
"Smug bastard."
"Earned it."
I push him onto his back before he can get comfortable, and reach down to wrap my hand around his cock, thick and hard and leaking against my palm. I want to taste him before I do anything else tonight.
I kiss down his stomach, along the trail of dark hair leading lower, and take him in my mouth slow, watching his face the whole time. He watches me right back, just as intent, just as hungry for it. He curses under his breath and his hips jerk up before he catches himself.
"Fuck, Lydia."
I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, my tongue working the underside of him while my hand moves in time with my mouth. He tastes like salt and sweat and like us, the whole taste of this endless, sticky night distilled into one place, and the sound he makes when I swallow him down further, until he brushes the back of my throat, is worth every second of my jaw already starting to ache. His fingers slide into my hair, damp at the roots, not pulling, just resting there like he needs somewhere to put his hands.
"You're going to be the death of me," he says, voice wrecked. "Cazzo, just like that. Don't stop."
I don't stop. I work him with my mouth and my hand together until his thighs go tight under me and his breath turns ragged and short, right up to the edge. Only then do I pull off him, lips wet, and look up to watch his whole body strain toward a finish I'm not giving him yet.
"Not yet," I say. "I want you inside me when you come."
"Cazzo, Lydia." He drags me up his body by the hip, half laughing, half strained past the point of patience. "Get up here, then. Now."
I straddle him, my thighs already slick where they press against his hips, and sink down slow onto him with nothing between us still, both of us feeling exactly what that means and neither one of us saying it out loud.
He groans, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his palms sliding a little on my damp skin before he tightens his grip, and I ride him like I've got something to prove, slow at first, then faster, sweat sliding down between my breasts, his eyes locked on mine the whole time, steady and open, all of his attention right on my face.
"Look at you," he says, wrecked. "Taking my cock like you were made for it. Ride me harder,piccola. I want to feel you fall apart on top of me."
"Shut up and move with me."
He does, hips meeting mine, one hand sliding up my ribs, slick with sweat, like he's trying to hold every part of me at once, the other finding my clit and pressing hard, matching the rhythm I've set. I brace my hands flat against his damp chest and take him deeper, faster, chasing something I already know is close, and his jaw goes tight beneath me.
